Fandango in the Apse! Read online

  So with that thought in mind I went to a garden centre, bought a rose bush and set off to plant it. It wasn’t hard to find her grave: I assumed she was buried in Saint Bartholomew’s churchyard and I was right. The new granite stone (rather fitting, I thought) stood out amongst the older relics in the graveyard.

  Margaret Geraldine Hessey

  Born 17th April 1929 – Died 9th October 1999

  RIP

  Succinct and to the point, cold, bare facts, nothing more. That was about right. Trowel in hand I planted the rose bush. I couldn’t actually speak to my mother, but I felt the rose bush communicated my thoughts, even though I wasn’t exactly sure what they were myself.

  You can understand why I took it as a personal affront then, when I went back a fortnight later to find a shrivelled shadow of the lush plant. I went back the next day and planted another. Two weeks later, it was the same. I couldn’t understand it; there were plenty of other graves sporting thriving vegetation. One even had a hydrangea in full bloom. After my third failed attempt, I gave up.

  ‘It’ll be her,’ I said to Eddie that evening. ‘She knows it’s me planting them, so she’s killing them off out of spite.’

  He looked at me open-mouthed then shook his head in disbelief. It was perfectly obvious he thought I still wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that!’

  ‘Katie, I hate to point out the obvious, but your mother is dead, how could she be killing rose bushes?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I know is there are plenty of graves with plants growing quite happily on them…’

  ‘Have you thought the ground may not be suitable for roses, maybe they need a certain type of soil?’

  Oh! I hadn’t thought of that, the only thing I knew about growing roses was that my mother used to dump horse shit on them every spring. A few days later, still unwilling to relinquish my theory that it was my mother’s nastiness permeating the soil and killing the roses, I went once more to the graveyard and looked for rose bushes. There were plenty. Feeling vindicated, I mentioned it to Eddie.

  He was holding onto his temper by a thread. ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit obsessed by this? The fucking roses won’t grow! Accept it and move on.’

  A few months later, I was still enjoying the benefits of my mind candy, although now to a lesser degree. The doctor, in his wisdom, had reduced the dosage when I’d gone for a repeat prescription. He was still trying to get me to go for counselling; I was still refusing.

  ‘The anti-depressants can only help so much, Mrs Roberts. You need to deal with the root cause of your problems,’ he said, with great patience.

  ` I gave my stock answer: ‘I’ll think about it.’

  However, after a conversation with Eddie I did more than think about it – I went. It all started one evening after the boys were in bed. Eddie was having a rare night in (amazing, eh?), and we were in the conservatory enjoying a bottle of wine. I was feeling relaxed and for once, enjoying his company.

  ‘Have you thought any more about counselling?’ he said, out of the blue. My mellow mood vanished.

  ‘Don’t you start; I have enough of it from Doctor Webb every time I go.’

  ‘Well, have you actually thought about taking his advice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What’s this, Twenty Questions? I don’t want counselling… that’s why!’

  ‘I think you should go,’ he persisted.

  ‘Oh, do you? Well thank you for sharing your opinion; can we change the subject now?’

  ‘No, I think – ‘

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Eddie, if you’re so concerned about it, you go for bloody counselling.’ I was pissed off now. Why did he have to spoil a perfectly good evening?

  ‘Because I’m not the one who needs it.’

  ‘Neither am I.’

  Eddie did his open-mouthed gape again. ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’ he snorted. It was a mixture of astonishment and sarcasm. ‘Have you looked at yourself lately? You’re a mess, your head’s all over the place, you snap at everyone…’

  ‘That’s because my dosage has been reduced, I’ll be fine once I get used to it and I’m not a mess, I’ve just had my hair cut and I’ve started wearing make-up again.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s fine then…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The outside is fine but the head’s buggered – nice one, Katie.’

  ‘You bastard! How dare you?’

  Eddie sighed and put his glass on the table as he stood up. ‘I give up, Katie, do as you like. Take your drugs and live in your own little world, but just remember you have kids in this one. Don’t you think they deserve better? I’m off to bed.’

  That, I have to tell you, was as good as a slap in the face. He couldn’t have said anything better to make me sit up and think. He was right of course, which made it even more galling. I’d been so wrapped up in popping pills to keep myself on an even keel that I’d not given a thought to how all this was affecting the boys. Christ, I was a selfish bitch. Out of a sense of duty but very much against my will, I made an appointment with the shrink.

  And, Jesus, what an experience that was! One meeting with her and I was sure the lunatic’s were running the asylum. Maybe I’m being a tad unfair here, but you can read on and draw your own conclusions.

  Patti Fitzroy was a lovely woman, a bit eccentric but totally dedicated. She had short grey hair, bluntly chopped under her ears and a scraped-back fringe held in place with a daisy-shaped slide, which had a small butterfly suspended on a thin wire above it. Every time she moved her head, the butterfly’s wings danced as if it was about to take off, it was incredibly distracting. The first time I went, she greeted me at the door, her bright rosy-cheeked face alight with interest. Her office was laid out like a comfy sitting room with two easy chairs and a coffee table.

  ‘Come in, come in, my dear, make yourself comfortable,’ she said, gesturing towards one of the chairs.

  Then, having plonked herself in the other, she placed a box of tissues on the coffee table for no apparent reason. I was mildly disappointed that I wouldn’t be lying on a couch.

  ‘Now then, we’re fine… yes, we’re fine,’ she said to herself as she lifted a pair of glasses suspended from a chain around her neck.

  Picking up the hem of her purple, corduroy skirt, she breathed on the lenses and polished away while reading her notes on the arm of the chair. She obviously hadn’t given any thought to her clothes that morning. She had teamed the skirt with a bright orange, long-sleeved shirt, complete with blue embroidery. On top of that, she had an acid-green waistcoat, with sewn-on beads and tiny mirrors that screamed at my eyeballs. Possibly the outright winner though, was an ancient pair of sandals displaying her yellowing, overlong toenails…yuck! I was expecting a suitably attired professional type and wasn’t sure what to make of the multi-coloured vision in front of me.

  When her glasses had been meticulously polished, inspected and were once again dangling in front of her, she had finally turned her attention to me. What? No way – I’d wanted to tell her to put the damned glasses on; I felt cheated. She had made such a song and dance out of cleaning them, the least she could do was to put them on her face. Jesus! She was an irritating woman and I’d only been there five minutes.

  ‘Now, dear…’

  Don’t you just hate being called dear?

  ‘Before we start, I have a little quiz for you. Nothing to worry about, the answers are all there, you just need to pick one in each category.’

  She handed me a sheet of paper and a pen with a flourish. What the hell? A quiz? What was going on? I came expecting a darkened room with a big leather couch and she was giving me a quiz? I scanned the paper. Question one. How would you rate your present state of mind? A. Depressed. B. Slightly depressed. C. Deeply depressed. Question ten. Have you ever had suicidal thoughts? A. Never. B. Sometimes. C. Frequently.

  ‘It’s just so I can assess your prog
ress when we come to the end of our sessions,’ she added cheerfully. I’d had enough already.

  ‘Look, Mrs Fitzroy, I…’

  ‘Oh, call me Patti, dear, there’s no need for formalities here.’

  ‘Look, Patti, I’ve only come here because my husband insisted, if I’d wanted to do a damned quiz I’d have applied to Mastermind…OK?’

  She was still smiling, although the sparkle had dulled a tad when she spoke. ‘I see, well let’s leave that for another time, shall we?’

  Yes, let’s, I thought.

  At some point during my sessions, I grew to like Patti. She was as nutty as a fruitcake, but immensely entertaining. Her bizarre wardrobe looked like the inside of a charity shop and judging by the outfits she wore, that’s probably where she got them. I couldn’t pinpoint her age, but I estimated she was probably a product of the swinging sixties, who had never grown out of the hippy stage.

  I began to look forward to seeing whatever contraption she had on her head – her array seemed limitless. Diamanté beetle clasps, bands with plastic forget-me-nots, and a strange collection of clips similar to the butterfly, with dragonflies, ladybirds and the like. She was a nice woman who accepted everything I said on face value, which made the whole experience easier. I would say something like “my mother and I didn’t get on”, and she would make a soothing remark hoping it would solve the problem.

  I realised early on she had no concept of evil, a remarkable feat if you consider her profession. To her, life had a rosy glow. Yes, she admitted, there were times when it became tarnished, but nothing a little love and understanding couldn’t put right. Yeah, right! I made a mental note during my second session – after I’d tried to explain the complexity of my relationship with my mother, and was greeted by a “Well, you know, dear, we can often mistake well-meaning parental discipline for cruelty, when we’re children” – that I would tell this woman what she wanted to hear, and no more. I was fast realising reality wasn’t her thing. Can you see a pattern here? I don’t want to harp on about being jinxed, but I can’t help thinking if it had been anyone else, they would have landed themselves an on-the-ball psychiatrist, who actually managed to do them some good. Me? I end up with a cross between a grey-haired politician and a clown’s stooge. Or is that being too paranoid?

  Seven months down the line, when I said my last good bye to Patti, I was aware that if you discounted the entertainment value, the whole thing had been pointless. Actually, I’m not being fair again; she was possibly very good at her job, it’s just she was dealing with someone who did not intend to let her do it. I wasn’t being deliberately awkward; I just hadn’t wanted to bare my soul to a woman who wore corduroy and lived in Fairyland.

  She did say one thing that resonated in my un-purged soul, though. She told me it was fine not to like my mother. Wow! The concept was so alien; it took me a while to grasp it. I didn’t have to feel guilty because I disliked my mother. Freedom beckoned.

  Well, not quite. Although none of my “issues” had been resolved by counselling, Eddie appeared sufficiently satisfied with my mental stability to drop an atomic bomb right in the middle of our marriage.

  I must stop for a second because I’ve just had a thought; I keep going on about my “mental” state and it just occurred to me that I might be giving you the wrong impression. I don’t want you thinking I was a basket case or anything.

  It is fair to say I had a bit of a “do” after my mother’s death, but I defy anyone to take that in their stride. No, I was fine, I had managed to neatly compartmentalise my “issues” and find my own way of dealing with them. I really think this business of getting everything out in the open is just so much bullshit. The Americans started it – therapy this, counselling that. Why we have to rake over and analyse everything, mystifies me. Anyway, back to Eddie and his bombshell.

  Chapter Eleven

  The boys were going on their annual holiday to Scotland with their grandparents, and I’d just returned from dropping them off when Eddie greeted me from the kitchen.

  ‘You’re early,’ I remarked, trying to remember the last time he had managed to get home before eight on a Friday.

  He made the offer of a coffee by nodding towards the kettle. I nodded back. He turned to the sink to fill it before answering me.

  ‘Yeah, I thought we could order in a Chinese, what do you think?’

  Anything that meant I didn’t have to cook was fine by me.

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. Digging the takeaway menu out of a drawer, I browsed through it while Eddie busied himself with the coffee on the other side of the kitchen.

  ‘I’m having beef in black bean sauce with egg fried rice,’ I announced as he handed me my mug. ‘Oh, and some noodles. What do you fancy?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Pass it here, let me have look.’

  As we pored over the menu, I was thinking how nice it was to have time together without the constant chattering of the boys. We didn’t do it often enough. His choice made, Eddie went to the phone to order.

  ‘It’ll be twenty minutes, I’ll go and get out of this suit,’ he said, a moment later.

  ‘D’you want red or white?’ I called after him.

  ‘White’s fine,’ drifted back from the stairs.

  We were halfway through the meal before I realised Eddie wasn’t looking too good. Just goes to show how much real attention I show him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘You’re looking quite ill.’

  ‘No, I’m OK… it’s just…’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘I need to talk to you, Katie.’

  Oh God! He was going to tell me he had something dreadfully wrong with him, that’s why he was home early – nine-tenths of the time he was a bastard, but I still didn’t want him to be seriously ill. I put my hand over his and smiled encouragingly.

  ‘I’m moving to London.’ I snatched my hand back.

  ‘London?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re moving to London…in the singular, as in alone, without us?’

  His voice hardened. ‘Yes, I’ve been offered a job, well actually, I was offered it last year, but with things the way they were with you…’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Douglas Campion offered it again last week and I’ve accepted.’

  ‘Just like that, without discussing it with me?’

  ‘We’re discussing it now.’

  ‘No, we’re not! You’re telling me what you’ve already done. And who the hell is Douglas Campion?’ I was trying to keep my cool, but I could feel my temper heating up by degrees. What the hell was going on? Eddie couldn’t keep the note of satisfaction out of his tone.

  ‘He’s the CEO of Dryden International. I’ll be working in the Docklands – it’s a huge opportunity.’

  ‘But you’re going alone?’

  ‘Katie, you know as well as me our marriage has been dead for a long time, I think this is the perfect time for the break.’

  ‘Oh fucking do you? Well I’m glad you sorted that out then. For a moment there I thought we had two kids and a home to think about… but excuse me, obviously your wishes take precedence…silly me, for not grasping that.’

  ‘Katie…’

  ‘No! Don’t Katie me. You come out with a statement that you’re taking a job I knew nothing about, and you’re leaving me and the boys to boot, and I’m just supposed to say that’s fine… is that it, Eddie, have I got it straight?’ He had the good grace to wince. ‘Well I’m sorry but it’s just not that easy, you have responsibilities.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and what about my responsibility to myself… eh? What about that?’ he yelled.

  ‘Oh don’t make me laugh… all you do is think about yourself. You assume you can swan off alone…’

  Eddie stood and banged his fists on the table overturning his wineglass. ‘I’m not going alone, you stupid bitch!’

  His wide-eyed look of horror told me that was something he definitely hadn’t intended to mention.

  ‘Oh, really
. Who is she this time, Eddie? Gosh! She must be special; you’ve never felt the need to leave your family for any of the others.’

  I was calmly livid at this point, if that’s possible; sarcasm was the only way to stop myself ripping his throat out.

  ‘You might as well know, it’s not a she, it’s a he,’ said Eddie slumping back in his chair.

  The silence stretched around the kitchen as I tried to take in what he was saying. He? As in a man? Did that mean…? Oh – My – God! No, not possible, Eddie was the biggest womaniser I knew. Realising I was gaping at him, I shut my mouth and hoped I’d heard wrong. Not a chance.

  ‘His name is Ethan; we’ve been together for two years, we’re lovers,’ he said quietly.

  The first thing to hit him was my plate of beef in black bean sauce. It smashed squarely in his face and produced a satisfying cut on the bridge of his nose. Most of what was on the table followed until Eddie grabbed me to wrestle the wine bottle out of my hand.

  A rather unsavoury tussle followed, which I don’t think I need to go into. Suffice to say, Eddie left the house with a fat lip to match his nose and most of the Chinese meal dripping off his clothes. I was nursing bruised arms and what I thought at the time was a broken hand. Women can never throw punches properly, can they?

  As I sat in the kitchen amongst the debris of broken plates and Chinese food with my hand in a bowl of iced water, I tried to make sense of what had happened. I swear to God you couldn’t make it up. Eddie my womanising husband, of nearly fourteen years, was gay?

  How had I missed that? Was I blind? Had he always been gay or was it just with this Ethan chap? Ethan and Eddie, Eddie and Ethan, I said it aloud, it had a ring to it. Had there been others? Jesus, had he come from them straight to our bed? That thought made me feel sick. I wondered about the woman, and there had been plenty… why? Had he been trying to convince himself – deny his homosexuality? And he was leaving, taking off to London to set up home with this Ethan, whoever the hell he was.

  Jealousy ripped through me, well maybe not jealousy, you have to love someone to be jealous and I never loved Eddie, but I was fond of him and could have stayed married to him. It was anger – anger that this man was about to take my place, going to be living with my husband, wrecking my life, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. I might have had a fighting chance if it had been another woman, but unfortunately, if your husband prefers balls to boobs there isn’t a lot of scope to fight your corner.